


quicksand

by raiaalily



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Fantasy, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 23:34:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8867719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiaalily/pseuds/raiaalily
Summary: [ The sands are warm and unfamiliar between your toes. ]
— vent drabble.





	

.

The sands are warm and unfamiliar between your toes.

An ever-changing landscape of devastation looms behind you; the longer you stay here, the more memories you lose to the cracks beneath the surface. Happy moments, sad moments, good times, bad times – they slip through your fingers, one after another, until they’re lost in the abyss forever.

You’re running out of time.

.

Far off into the distance you can hear the cries of your loved ones, muffled in volume but loud in urgency. They’re calling your name over and over out there, hell-bent for their voices to reach you, desperate for you to return to them safe and sound.

You know they love you, in spite of all the pain and emotional turmoil you’ve put each other through.

You don’t want to lose them.

.

_You can’t save both_ , the genie says. _You have to choose._

Memories or loved ones. Loved ones or memories.

“This isn’t my decision to make,” you murmur, torn between losing your heart and losing your soul.

Choosing your memories would mean condemning the loved ones of the present, stewing in your own hurt and anger and disappointment while leaving no room for them to make amends. These strangers are no longer the people you adore, but you’d stay anyway, disillusioned, because they once _were_.

Picking your loved ones would mean striking out the mistakes of the past with a blackboard marker – only to paint over the future canvas with the exact same thing, because all of you hold the pride in your hearts with too much regard and the idea of change with too little.

“It’s not fair.”

.

_Save them._

_Save them._

_(Which ‘them’?)_

_Save them._

.

The genie doesn’t demand to know what you’re trying to prove or accuse you of things you don’t mean like your loved ones would, nor does it fill you with wistful longing and a terrible sense of loss the way your memories tend to do.

Instead it merely tilts its head. Regards your disappearing figure and closed eyes with a gentle smile, and asks:

_Is this your final decision?_

.

The sands are warm and unfamiliar against your cheekbones as they threaten to swallow you whole.

.  
.  
.

“Yes.”

.


End file.
